A Gryffindor Heart
by iNiGmA
Summary: It's been three days since she's last heard from Sev. Three whole days without owls at her window. His home life isn't the best, though he won't talk about it. And out there, in the looming darkness, Voldemort's power is growing, destiny nearly upon them. But through it all, Lily has always known what she's wanted—who she's wanted. But is love enough, to leave the shadows behind?


_**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter, not mine._

_**A/N:** Hey guys, I've always wanted to try a Snily! :) __This was written for HP Battleships, prompt #39: During Snape's school years, Character A comes to Spinner's End and meets Eileen and Tobias and ... C) Character A is concerned when they stop hearing from their secret friend over the summer. __This story also utilizes items #77 (Let's Play a Game: Severus Says) and #85 (Sunburned Snape) from The List. _

_Huge thanks to Animalium for betaing, and __Farbautidottir for inspiring the title of this fic with her amazing story, **The Slytherin Heart**, which I recommend lots!_

_**Please note,** this story contains some citrusy content. It's on the poetic side, but it exists. _

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**A Gryffindor Heart**

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_Three days._

That's how long it has been, since she has last heard from Sev. Three whole days.

Lily fidgets, picking at the edges of her nails as the life of her mother's garden reaches for the sky around her, the sweet scent of summer dancing lightly upon the air. Freesias. Begonias. Hydrangeas. A whole spectrum. A wash of pinks, and yellows, and blues. She could be anywhere. She could be on holiday; lying in some exotic paradise, watching the skies through a rose-shaded filter. It is pretty as a picture. Mother has spent hours on them. Days. Three days.

It has been three days.

She is sure of it; _something is wrong._

"What are you doing?"

The shrill voice cuts through the sleepy silence, floating out to her across the thick and swollen air. She feels the ground tremble. The vibrations of the footsteps, so forceful — angry, really — that even the grass-softened ground cannot contain them. But what can she expect? The earth shouldn't have to make do with so much bitterness. There isn't room for it. It's unhealthy, she thinks. If only it wasn't so difficult, to learn the subtle art of letting go.

A shadow falls across her face, blocking out a tiny piece of the sun. She scowls.

"Why are you lying here like some tramp?"

Lily sighs, her eyes flickering away, her gaze getting lost amongst the flowers once more. Escapism. She has always been a master. Long before Hogwarts came along. _Crocosmias_, she thinks, her eyes trailing across the colorful petals. _Lilies. _

_Petunias._

She sighs once more. Perhaps today is not a day for escapism after all. But she already knew that.

"Get up, freak," Petunia says, the scowl evident in her tone. As bitter as Father's blackest coffee. "The neighbors will think we've left you out to rot."

Lily is silent. Her body still within the unyielding blades of grass. Her face is turned upwards, eyes seeking the sky. She thinks of the flowers. Of her owl-free window. Of the sharp, hard edges of Sev's face.

"They'll call the police," Petunia insists. "Think how it will look."

And it's always, _always_ about how things look. All stiff, and prim, and proper. Dressed up in layers and layers of black. And she knows how things are; how they _can_ be. How they don't always fall as they should. Has long suspected, what lies beneath the layers. A hesitant gait, an easy shudder; these things look a certain way, too. She has always been good at reading between the lines.

But Sev has never asked for a rescue; would abhor it. And the police… She pauses. But what could they do?

No, _she_ will have to do it. This she knows; has known from the beginning, from the first moment they lay upon the grass in sweet innocence and watched the clouds sweep by overhead on a bed of magic. She has known it before she understood what knowing was. Waiting has never been one of her strong suits, and yet she has let six years go by unquestioned.

She pushes herself to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Petunia whines, as she walks wordlessly past her sister, steps inside the cool shade of the kitchen.

"Out," she says tonelessly.

Petunia wrinkles her nose. "Off to find some frogs to disfigure? Going to rip off their toes and throw them in a cauldron?"

Lily ignores her, reaching the stairs and starting up.

"I saw a black cat outside last night," Petunia spits, following her up the stairs. "It was sitting in the front garden, all stiff and dead-looking. Filthy thing. Bet it's yours. Your familiar, is that it? Or, wait, is it your…_lover_?" She smirks, clearly pleased with herself for figuring it out. For finding another way to hurt Lily. This big, great secret that she can't possibly believe. "Bet they're all right with that, _your kind._"

Lily wonders if beneath the scorn, and spite, and bitterness, there remains even a shadow of a big sister. Of the little girl who once held her hand. Who whispered soft comforts in her ear after a nightmare, held her close in the night, promised that nothing would ever hurt her. That they would always be together. Best friends.

She reaches her room, steps into the light, pink brightness that had once been her sanctuary; in times that were more innocent. Before Dark Lords rose to power outside the walls, and she learned what true pain felt like. She asked her parents last summer whether she could paint it blue, but they resisted.

"You only spend summers here, Lily. Painting is such an involved process. It's impractical to redo a whole room for a few weeks' enjoyment, don't you think?"

"It reminds us of you."

She supposes it reminds them of a version of herself that she has lost somewhere in time. One they don't see in her eyes anymore when they go looking.

It reminds _her_ of the girl she used to be, before she stepped on the Hogwarts Express and learned what magic truly was. That girl was sweet, and innocent, and didn't know anything...about anything.

And now these pink walls, they feel like a prison.

She grasps her willow wand, warm from its long rest in the sun streaming in through her window, turns to leave the room again.

"Are you going out with that?" Petunia hisses, hovering in the doorway. "Put it away! The neighbors will see!"

"Fine," she says. Sometimes, she'll say anything to make Petunia stop talking in that nasty voice that would have left her broken, had she been softer. But hard as she's grown, Lily can barely stand to look at her sister, at the ugly face she wears like armour. Is amour supposed to cut this much? She had thought that stabbing was reserved for swords. But perhaps Petunia's scowl is both.

She grabs her bag from its spot of casual abandonment on her desk, still chock full of accoutrements from her last outing with Sev. They had walked to the lake, basked in the sunshine as they lay in the wild grass along its edge. They had waded into the chilling water, laughing, splashing. His smile so wide and huge and innocent. Hogwarts didn't exist, not in Cokeworth. Not at this wild and rocky shore that nature had ceded to them for a few blissful hours. No Gryffindor. No Slytherin. No Dark Lords waiting with the promise of destiny. Just her, and Sev. A sweeping tree. Feet dangling over water.

She has lost Petunia, but Sev has always been there, solidly filling the hole her sister left behind. And Merlin knows, they aren't perfect. Their arguments are as wild and destructive as a beast; they breathe with a life of their own. She doesn't know how long she can hold on to him, how strong her small hands are, compared to all the hands of darkness that pull and push at him, their hold lessening at times, but never quite letting go. But she will not let go either. Not until the end. And maybe not even then.

The bag is heavy. She could empty it, but she wishes to escape, to get away from Petunia's accusing eyes, so she shoves the willow wand inside and hurries down the stairs before Petunia can harass her further.

"Don't wait up," she says, though it is only three in the afternoon.

Sev's street is only two streets away, and yet it could not look more different. The large, stand-alone houses are gone. No more colonials, or capes, or tudors. No more two-car garages, or front gardens fighting to outdo each other, all easily perfect enough to land a two-page spread in one of those Muggle magazines Mother loves. _Gardeners' World_, perhaps. Spinner's End is a concrete jungle. Tall row houses loom into the sky. Even in the brightness of the summer afternoon, the street is dim. Dingy. There is a spattering of green between the grey; resilient weeds poking through cracks in the worn sidewalk. She is in a different world, traversing the shadows. A place where only the strongest, the ugliest, the most adaptable can survive. But when the sun is high enough, even the deepest shadows fall away.

She has walked this street before. Has waited outside, across the road, around the corner. In all this time, Sev has never granted her entry. She reaches for the knocker now, waiting imposingly upon the faded green door. She is nearly seventeen; a Gryffindor. Can you still be brave...if you're afraid? Her hand trembles.

"Whaddya want, girl?"

The door is yanked open roughly, almost before she can remove her hand from the knocker. She jerks away, her eyes landing on the man; dark-haired, thin, tall. She does not know his name. Six years she has known Sev, and he has barely talked about his father. Has clammed up at the mere mention of the man. She looks at him now, taking him in. His face is unshaven, swollen, and there are deep shadows under his eyes, as black as empty holes. The stench of alcohol escaping his breath is overpowering. She tries not to shudder.

"Hello," she says politely. "I'm here to see Severus. I'm a friend from school?"

"Wha' for?" he scoffs. His words slur together, his voice gruff and cold. "Whaddya want with tha' good fo' nuttin fucking ponce?"

Her eyes follow the outline of his arm, trail to the beer bottle clutched between his bruised fingers, wrapped in a pattern of blacks and blues standing out harshly in the light. She tamps down her fear. She is a Gryffindor, after all; she will not falter. She will not stop to think about what — _who_ — may have painted that hand.

"I'm his friend," she repeats. She keeps her voice calm, controlled. Inside, she can feel it tremble. "Is he here?"

"Listen 'ere—" the man begins, and then a soft voice cuts through the space behind him and he pauses, glancing around, his face set in a scowl.

"Leave her alone, Tobias."

Tobias steps back from the door, and it swings open slightly, allowing her a glimpse into the dark room beyond. The house is like a festering hole, simultaneously repulsing and drawing her in. She blinks, her eyes adjusting enough to make out a thin woman standing by the far wall. This woman she _does_ know; has seen her hunched form amidst wallowing steam in the shadow of a train. Her sour-looking face flickering briefly to a smile as she watched her only son walk away. Safe, for ten more long months. In the summers, the smile upon her face as she greets Sev is brittle. Like plaster.

"You must be Lily," she says, and there is an edge of something to her voice that Lily cannot quite place. Respite, perhaps. Perhaps she is imagining it.

"Are you here to see Severus? I'm afraid he's a bit unwell."

"W-what's wrong with him?" Lily blurts out, her composure cracking as her fear multiplies. She clutches her bag to her chest like a lifeline. "Is he all right?"

Tobias curses — a slur, an epithet about feeble-minded women — and stalks out of the room. She hears the clinking of glass. The slamming of the refrigerator door. It is three o'clock on Sunday afternoon, and he is pissed as a newt. Sev's mother pulls her inside, her thin hand closing over Lily's own.

"He'll be happy to see you," she breathes. "I'm Eileen, his mother. It's lovely to meet you at last." And Lily realizes that this woman _knows_ her. Or of her, at least. Has a version of Lily sketched in her head, and she has shaded it in between the lines — perhaps from glances of her own in the moments when she lifted her eyes from the ground long enough to see them together, or perhaps from Sev's own words. Perhaps she has been a topic of conversations; of talks in confidence between mother and son. The thought warms her heart. She wonders if, in Eileen's mind, Lily wears pink.

Strangely, it doesn't matter.

"He's in his room," Eileen says softly, pulling her further into the house. She stumbles over several cardboard box spread haphazardly across the sitting room floor but manages to stay on her feet. "Go on up, dear."

Eileen directs her to the foot of the stairs, unimpressively tucked into a corner of the sitting room, and tilts her head upward. "Second door on the right."

"Thank you," Lily breathes. Her foot is on the stairs. And then she is halfway up, rising so fast she nearly floats. She glances back. Eileen's face wears the ghost of a smile. Perhaps she is thinking that it is not too late for second chances.

She is outside his door, and she is both excited and afraid. Her hand shakes as she knocks. There is no answer, so she softly pushes the door and steps into the room.

The room is dark. Dark and shaded, and all but invisible. It could have been a palace or a closet. Or a cupboard under the stairs. It could have been a padded prison, or emblazoned with Gryffindor colors, and she wouldn't have noticed; for all her attention is drawn only to Sev. He is a magnet. And she is steel.

He is lying on the bed, his face in shadow; not quite catching the feeble streaks of light bleeding in from the cracks around his drawn curtains. He turns his face at the sound, his eyes meeting hers. She knows, because she can see them glimmer.

"Lily," he rasps.

"Oh, Sev!" She breathes again. For a moment, foolish as it seems now, she was expecting the worst, and the relief nearly makes her giddy. She steps into the room, closing the door firmly behind her. "Are you all right? What happened? I haven't heard from you in days!"

"Why are you here?" he says, his voice slightly panicked. "My…my father is—"

"Downstairs," she says firmly, walking past him and to the window. She pulls at the shade. "Why are you lying in the dark? Have you been avoiding me because you've turned into a bat?"

"No, don't," he says weakly, but she is already pulling back the curtain, letting the afternoon sunlight flood the room. She turns around, a relieved smile still firmly planted on her face, and lets out a gasp as she meets Sev's eyes again. For a moment, she isn't sure whether to cry or laugh.

"Oh, Sev!" she says again, her voice trailing off in sympathy. "Oh, I told you. I bloody _told_ you…"

His face is red as a tomato. As a watermelon. As a Gryffindor Quidditch jersey. And she can see more red, trailing down his neck, disappearing beneath the stark white sheet he is holding tightly to his chest.

_What is black and white and red all over?_ she thinks, the silly Muggle riddle jumping to her mind with unwelcome obstinacy. Sev scowls, as if he can read her mind. Maybe he can. Though he swore he wouldn't.

"Just so you know," he says, clearly annoyed, "it hurts like getting skinned alive by a dragon. With teeth."

"Oh," she says softly, a wave of sympathy washing away her easy smile. She resists the temptation to ask him _which_ dragon. Does it feel like a Norwegian Ridgeback, or a Swedish Short-Snout, for example? Because while a Short-Snout can produce fire so hot it burns blue, Ridgebacks have poisonous fangs, which could hurt all the more. If one was to let a dragon skin them, that is. These things have to be considered. However, she doesn't imagine Sev would appreciate the question at the moment, so she settles for, "I _told_ you to wear sunscreen! Why didn't you listen?" Which doesn't do a whole lot to help either, and he just scowls all the more. Perhaps she should have asked about the dragon after all.

Sev mutters something unintelligible that she can't quite decipher, and she draws closer to the bed, laying her bag on the floor as she reaches out a hand to brush it across his cheek.

The sunburn is bad. Up close, she can see the cracks marring his skin; broken and peeling. He grits his teeth at her touch and draws in a sharp breath. His cheek is hot; so much so that the edges of her fingertips tingle.

"You look a real mess," she says softly, pulling her hand away. Oh, she _had_ the sunscreen right there, had asked him to massage it into her back as they sat before the empty lake. The only two people in the world. Why didn't she insist? Sev was so defiant. _I don't need that. _As if his stubbornness and his pale complexion were stronger than the sun.

"Hasn't your mum given you anything for it?" she adds, her eyes trailing across the patch of tiny blisters at the edge of his neck. "This looks nearly second-degree…" They were out at the lake _all day_. "What about some burn-healing paste? Wouldn't that help?"

"My _father_," Sev hisses, nearly spitting out the word, "insists that if I am fool enough to do this to myself, then I deserve to suffer until the effects wear off."

"That's _horrible_!" Lily says, anger burning through her nearly as hotly as the red stains across Sev's pallid skin. She is seething. "How could he do that? What about your _mum_? Why isn't she—"

"She can't do anything," Sev says. "She…" He trails off, his words fading to silence. He has never been forthcoming about his family. This may be the most he's ever said.

"Oh, never mind then!" she says angrily. "I'll just make some myself! Where's your cauldron?"

Sev sighs. "We don't have any ingredients, Lily."

"What do you mean?" She frowns. "_You_ don't have a giant dispensary of chopped livers and frog legs? Where's Sev and what've you done with him?"

Sev cracks a brittle smile. "I lock them up at Hogwarts over break. So my father can't — it's just easier that way."

She is floored, stunned to silence. His words, his face, the barely concealed undercurrent of sadness beneath his words confirms what she has long suspected. And yet, somehow, it's worse.

"Where's your loo, then? I'll get you some cold water." She turns, heading for the door before Sev can even answer, and nearly trips over her bag. It topples across the floor, its contents spilling out everywhere.

She curses, bending down to push them aside when she spots the little green tube amongst the clutter. _Of course! _She remembers it now; stuffing it into her bag along with the sunscreen and the towels and the sandwiches — as if it would serve her at the lake, _just in case_, rather than hours later. In fact, she used _so_ much sunscreen that she didn't need it at all. She never thought she'd be grateful to Petunia. In fact, she _isn't_; she's grateful to her tendency to over-prepare.

She grabs the little tube, already cool in her hand despite its plastic container, and turns back to Sev, smiling. "Never mind, this is even better."

"What is it?" His eyes are wary as she approaches.

"A Muggle potion of the highest caliber," she promises. "At least in your current predicament."

She uncaps the tube and squeezes a small dollop of the cooling gel onto her hand before gently brushing it across his burning cheeks. He lets out a sharp breath.

"Aloe," he rasps. "Of course. I think you may be my knight in shining armour. The type that rides in on a white horse."

"On a red horse," she corrects with a grin as she rubs the cooling gel across the entirety of his face. She squeezes more onto her hand and starts on his neck. Sev closes his eyes, his expression one of pure bliss. She smiles to herself, unbearably pleased that she is the one alleviating his pain, if only by a little. She wonders, once again, if Sev possibly knows how she feels. How the sight of his skin — raw and inflamed as it is — and this excuse to touch it, endlessly, _for as long as it takes_ — how all this makes her heart pound faster than time and her breath hitch in her throat, until she feels like her lungs must have shrunk, because she can barely breathe.

She works her way down his neck, until the tips of her fingers brush against the edge of the sheet, and the aloe clumps along the fold sewn into the fabric. She wipes it with her finger and pushes down the sheet.

"Wait!" Sev cries, feebly grasping at the bedclothes. "I'm—"

But she has already pulled it down halfway, revealing the bright red stain the sun has burned across his bare chest. She draws in a sharp breath.

"—not wearing a shirt," Sev finishes weakly, letting out a painful gasp as the sheet pulls at his inflamed skin.

She is torn, unsure what to say as her responses all crumble to silence. The sight of his bare chest is initially thrilling, but it's covered in a burn that bleeds across his skin with such force that she can nearly feel it herself, and she has seen his chest many times before — just three days past, even — but not like this, because three days past it was smooth, and pallid, and unblemished, but today it is not. Today it is scarred and marred by what can only be years and years of injuries — a belt, perhaps — and she doesn't even have to ask _why_ she didn't see it before, because these scars stand out, white and pale and knotted, against the burnt red of his chest and arms, and all she can do is stare, because there are no words. No words at all.

"Lily," Sev gasps finally, after the silence between them has grown so heavy it weighs down the air. His voice is so broken she feels afraid. She steels herself, looks at him, looks into his eyes, which are ashamed and terrified. And she does the only thing that feels right.

"Sev," she says, pointedly pitching her voice to one of annoyed resignation. "Are you a _complete_ idiot? If you were going to cover up your skin, why on _earth_ wouldn't you cover up everything! We need to have a talk about your priorities, you lazy sod!"

There is a pause. And then Sev snickers, laughs as hard as his aching body will allow as he deflates in her acceptance, her silent promise that she will not question him or judge. And she is laughing too. Until tears flood her eyes. Until they are both gasping for breath.

"Right then," she says finally, when she has wiped her eyes dry. "I'll get on with it then, shall I?"

He nods, rasps out his assent, and she picks up the tube she has dropped sometime during the interlude and squeezes a dollop of it onto his burning skin. And she is rubbing it in circles, massaging it into his chest, his arms, as he nearly moans in relief. Her fingers lightly brush the scars, fluttering over them, and he doesn't resist. Doesn't pull away. Her heart is aching for him, nearly breaking in two, and yet it is pounding so hard she's afraid he may hear it; may feel it through her fingers.

"Turn around," she says when she's done. "I'll do your back."

"All right," he whispers.

He struggles to turn with obvious effort. She can see the pain on his face as the bedding tugs at his raw skin. She grasps his hand and pulls, until he is lying face down before her. His back is just as bad as his front. Just as burnt. Just as scarred. She does not speak, simply squeezes more aloe onto his skin, rubs it along the scars, along the indentations of belt buckles that somehow never quite healed. Along the taut muscles that lie hidden, just beneath his skin. She is leaning over the bed now, to better reach his left side, and her mouth is inches from his shoulder. And her heart is in her throat.

She wishes she could say something; something clever or funny, but for maybe the first time in her life, she is lost for words. This moment feels momentous. A tipping point. And it is nearly over. And how can that be? Because she doesn't want it to end. And before she realizes it, before she is even aware of doing it, she brushes the last of the aloe onto his skin, and then leans down and, ever so gently, rests her head against his shoulder.

He inhales sharply, but doesn't say a word. And she trails her hands gently along his back, along his arms, down his sides.

"Lily…" he whispers.

"Sev."

She can't explain what she's doing, and her hair is sticky with aloe, and her heart is pounding against his back, but she doesn't stop. She is a Gryffindor; today, she feels brave.

She trails her hands, cool from the aloe, along his sides and slides them between his stomach and the sheets. And then further. He gasps.

"I didn't get burned there," he whispers.

"I know."

She selfishly almost wishes he had, because then she'd know exactly where they stood, how he sees her. But today, she will be direct. Today she will find out, one way or the other. She slips her fingers further down, brushes them against the worn waistband of his boxer shorts. Sev is frozen. She wonders if his breath is trapped in his lungs as solidly as her own. She hesitates, her fingers hovering, unable to slip past the barrier of cloth. Perhaps she is not that brave after all.

And then Sev slightly shifts his hand, slips it beneath his stomach, and places it over hers. She breathes again, the air in her lungs escaping at last in a sudden gasp as Sev gently grasps her hand and shifts it down, past the elastic, past the loose material of his shorts, and she can _feel_ him, beneath her hand. _Wanting her_.

Perhaps _he_ is the one who is brave.

And she is pressed up against him now, her chest pushing into his back. And she can feel the heat between her legs, this betrayal of how much she wants him. She has imagined this moment so many times, has dreamed about it as she lay awake until the early morning hours with sticky fingers and damp knickers and hair plastered across her sweaty face. Has all but given up believing it would ever happen. Certainly not like this. But suddenly it's _here_, all bang out of order. And she has never wanted him more.

"Lily," he gasps, and she can feel his heart pounding through the skin of his back, beating in time with her own.

"Yes?" she whispers, the word barely audible. She barely has breath to spare, to make a sound.

"Let's play a game," Sev says softly.

"A game?" And she nearly laughs, shifting her fingers against him. "What sort of game?"

"Truth or Dare," he breathes, his voice husky. And she is on edge, her desire doubling from his tone alone.

"Truth." She doesn't know how she will be able to speak a whole sentence when she can barely speak one word, but she needs the truth, needs it more than air. Whatever he wants to ask her, she will not hold back. They may be playing Truth or Dare, but they might as well be playing Simon Says instead. _Severus_ Says. Because right now, she will do _anything_ Sev says.

"Do you… have feelings for me?"

And she really _does_ laugh this time, because the question is ridiculous, because doesn't he _realize_ where her hand is? And how could he imagine anything else?

"Many feelings," she says, when she regains control.

"Romantic feelings?" he clarifies.

"Sev," she says plainly. "I'm in _love_ with you...you _stupid prat_." She doesn't know how she's said it, but once the words slip out, she has no desire to take them back; they are true. And she is brave. She _is_. Right now, she could take on anything.

He pauses for only a fraction. And then he shifts, forces himself around on the bed, and she lets go, lifts her body to give him space to turn, and finally he is lying on his back, and she is bracing herself on the bed on either side of him, and he is staring into her eyes, and she is falling into his own. Two deep obsidian pools. She almost swears that she can see them shimmer.

"I love you, too," he whispers. And her heart is pounding, and she is pleased beyond words, but not surprised, because she suddenly realizes that she's known it all along.

'Truth or Dare?" she whispers in response.

He smirks, never breaking eye contact. "Dare."

"I dare you to kiss me."

And he does. And it is everything.

He raises his head, and she leans down to meet him, and then their lips finally touch, and it's like electricity colliding. It's like the explosion of a _Protego_ and a _Stupefy_ meeting in midair. It's magic. She has never been kissed like this. It's better than she ever imagined it would be.

His tongue pushes roughly into her mouth, the shape of it filling her with waves of pleasure. The cool scent of aloe fills her nose, and she loves it, loves that she will remember it, because it will cement this moment. She feels his hands grasp at her hair, brush through the sticky tangles of Gryffindor red. Of the courage she can wear proudly now, because she was brave enough, at last, to take a chance. To reach for what she wanted.

And then his hands trail down, exploring every piece of her. And she is gasping against his mouth, her hand searching for him once more. It is their first time, and she has never felt safer, more herself, than now. In his arms. He stares into her eyes, unflinching, his lips slightly parted, as if he cannot believe this is happening. She cannot believe it either.

And, finally, they are together. In rhythm, in dance. They are one. And she is full to the brim, bursting with pleasure. Losing control. And the pleasure sweeps through her in shuddering, gasping waves as she presses her lips against his shoulder and pulls him off the edge and into the abyss.

And they are lying together, wrapped in each other's arms, their bodies sticky with sweat and aloe, and she thinks that this is what happiness is. This is what bravery's for. To fight for the things — the _people_ — you love. Because what other good could it possibly do?

And there is fighting ahead, she knows this. Fighting for justice, and for the right thing, and, most of all, for love. Because love is everything.

For Sev, she'll fight forever.

.

.

.

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_**A/N:** Thanks so much for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed my attempts at a Snily... and at writing in the present tense. I've never tried it before, but I always wanted to, and it was so much fun! Please do leave a review if you can! They all make me smile like mad! xD_

_Also, this is the FFN version, so the lemony content has been toned down a fair amount. Because guidelines. :P But you can check out the full version on Ao3 if you'd like, it's under the same name and username. _

_Rina_


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